Ring of Fire (8 page)

Jayden nodded vigorously.

“And a man doesn't go back on his word. I'm sorry, Jayden. I forgot. Want to go into your bedroom now, and I'll show you?”

“Yes, please!”

Eric glanced toward her. “That okay with you?”

“Sure. Jayden will be thrilled.” And might well be so excited he wouldn't get a good night's sleep, but so be it.

The pair went down the hall and into Jayden's room, leaving the door partially open.

Lark picked up the wineglasses and bottle and headed for the kitchen.

Her mother joined her a few moments later. “Eric's in Jayden's room,” she said.

“Fulfilling his promise to show him his prosthesis.”

“Ah. You don't worry that it will upset Jayden, seeing an amputation and an artificial leg?”

“I think he'll be more fascinated by the technology than upset about an amputated leg. He's seen his share of physical disabilities, after all.” Since he was tiny, he'd been in therapy sessions with other kids with physical, mental, and developmental issues.

Mary nodded, drying the glasses Lark had washed. “I wonder if it bothers Eric.”

“Of course it does. He's a career soldier, and the amputation set him back.” She opened the dishwasher and began to take out the clean dishes, handing them to her mom to put away.

“Yes, but I meant more as a man. Does he feel . . . less? Incomplete?”

Not sure exactly what her mom meant, Lark said, “He told Jayden that the wheelchair doesn't make him any less of a man. I assume he feels the same way about his leg.”

“I hope so.” The kitchen tidy now, Mary filled the kettle and plugged it in. “War is such a terrible thing. To take a healthy, vital man like Eric and blow off his leg . . .”

“I know.” Lark leaned back against the counter, wondering what tea her mom would choose tonight. “And he's determined to go back.”

“He's a brave man.”

“Yes, he is.” As well as being a man who didn't appear to see any other options for his future. But then, if Lark was injured, she'd be determined to get back to firefighting. It wasn't her sole identity, the way the military seemed to be for Eric, but she loved it and did it well. Why would she seek an alternative?

And why did the thought of Eric returning to the work he loved, leaving Caribou Crossing, and putting his life at risk again send a twinge of sorrow through her? She barely knew the man. Just because she found him sexy, and he was kind to her son . . .

Footsteps sounded, coming down the uncarpeted hall. Confident, even footsteps, like a man with two normal legs. Eric stepped into the kitchen. “I'm afraid he'll be dreaming about Cyborg.”

“Steve Austin.” Mary turned from rummaging through her tea drawer, with an uncharacteristically dreamy expression on her face.
“The Six Million Dollar Man.”

“What?” Lark asked.

“It was a TV show in the seventies. He was an astronaut who crashed and was rebuilt with bionic parts and enhanced powers, so he could be a government special agent.” Humor played around her lips. “He was also very handsome.”

“Mother, honestly,” Lark said with amusement.

“I'm glad I can provide fodder for fantasies,” Eric said, giving an easy grin to Mary, then glancing at Lark and away again.

Did he guess that her own steamy dreams would
not
feature a fictional character, but this real live man?

To Mary, he said, “Thanks again for dinner, ma'am.” He shot another glance between the two women. “Guess I'll see one of you at the Sunday lesson.”

“It will probably be me,” Lark told him. Only a major callout would keep her away.

“I'll look forward to that.”

For the life of her, she couldn't tell whether his comment was just politeness, or if he truly meant it.

* * *

Eric rode Celebration around the ring on Sunday morning, keeping the horse to a walk while Sally focused her attention on Jayden.

He was enjoying this lesson better than the previous two. Partly it was due to Lark being there, and also the sense that he was becoming friends with her and her son. He'd learned as a little kid, from sad experience, not to get too invested in friendship. You moved someplace new; you hoped to find a few buddies to hang out with; you didn't get attached because in a couple years or even a few months you'd be moving again.

That was how it was for him now as well, here in Caribou Crossing. If riding worked whatever magic his psychologist and physiotherapist hoped it would, he'd finally kick his PTSD and get back where he belonged. But in the meantime, it was nice to feel some small sense of closeness with other people.

Another thing he liked today was that Sally had switched things up again. Starting the lesson in the small ring, she had borrowed Eric's horse to give them a refresher on everything they'd learned to date, and then to demonstrate the lope. After Eric had mounted, she'd had him and Jayden repeat everything she'd done, including the trot and lope. He found that each motion used his muscles differently, and tested his balance. His physical issues—learning to adjust after more than thirty years of relying on a strong two-legged body—were different from Jayden's and, in comparison, pretty minor. The boy had never known what it was like to be strong, much less to walk on two firm legs.

Eric respected that kid. Hearing the women and boy talk, he'd learned how far Jayden had come in less than three months, going from needing Sally's support behind him on the horse all the way to riding on his own. His physical progress was more impressive than Eric's efforts to overcome his PTSD. Which only went to show how fucked up his life was, that a tough soldier wasn't doing as well as a child with disabilities.

Eric forced his father's voice out of his head. All his life, he'd strived to win his father's praise. Rarely, too rarely, he'd received an “I'm proud of you, son.” More often, he'd known he didn't measure up to his dad's high standards. If the Brigadier-General knew what was going on with him now, he'd consider Eric a failure.

But damn it, he was trying his best. He was frustrated, though, because every time he took a step forward, there'd be a setback. For example, after last Wednesday's lesson and dinner at the Cantrells', he'd been flashback-free for three nights and two days. But then on Saturday, he'd been running on a quiet country road when a rattly old truck drove by and backfired, and Eric had hit the ground, his mind back in Afghanistan as he coughed and gasped for breath.

If he wanted to avoid flashbacks, maybe he should ride every day. Or have dinner with Lark Cantrell. He stifled a rueful chuckle.

“Eric, Jayden,” Sally called, “let's try another slow lope.”

He complied happily. The gait was easier and more comfortable for him than trotting. Glancing at Jayden, with Lark and Corrie on either side of Pookie, he saw that the boy was doing fine. When Sally had them stop, Eric caught the kid's eye and raised his hand in a thumbs-up signal. He got a sparkly eyed grin in return.

After they took their break and then mounted up again, Sally said they'd have a short trail ride. She explained quietly to Eric that, while Jayden had made great progress, the environment on the trail was less controlled than in the ring, so she was going to keep them at a walk. If something spooked Jayden's horse, the boy didn't yet have the strength and coordination to be able to respond safely.

Eric liked that “yet.” The atmosphere around Jayden was a “can do” one. No one pressured the boy or made him feel inadequate, but he was supported in his efforts to become the best he could be.

As they rode along the dirt road, Eric's horse turned his head, eyeing a wild rosebush. The last time Celebration had done that, he'd veered off to munch leaves. This time, Eric directed the horse forward, firmly but gently. He was getting a better sense of Celebration's movements and cues, and how to communicate with the animal. Sally's message about relaxing his rigid back and matching the rhythm of the horse had gotten through. If he stayed here long enough, maybe he'd turn into a real rider.

But he wouldn't stay that long. Like Jayden, he refused to accept limitations. But unlike the boy, whose development would, hopefully, improve over years, Eric had a more immediate goal in mind, and the fierce motivation to achieve it.

Celebration shook his head and pranced. Eric realized that he'd tensed up and had tightened his grip on the reins. He eased off, and the horse settled. Remembering what Jayden had said about horses, and how they were like dogs, Eric stroked Celebration's glossy neck. The dark brown color was called bay, he'd learned.

This actually wasn't half bad, riding through the scenic countryside on a warmish, if overcast, September morning, exchanging an occasional comment with the folks up ahead and watching Lark's back as she strode easily along beside her son's horse. Her ass filled out her jeans very nicely, but it didn't sway; she had the same straightforward, athletic gait as a soldier. He liked that about her. He liked lots of things about her.

If circumstances had been different, he'd be asking her if she was interested in sharing another bottle of wine tonight—alone, in his quarters.

Instead, she called back, “Jayden would like to invite you over for dinner again, Eric. Interested?”

He'd rather that Lark found him sexy and wanted to be alone with him. Instead, she was being a good mom, inviting her son's friend over. Maybe viewing Eric as a charity case, the lonely, broken soldier.

He snorted, a grating sound in the back of his throat, and Celebration pranced restlessly. Eric leaned forward to stroke the horse's neck in a silent apology. How stupid to feel self-pity, bitterness. Jayden and Lark were being friendly, and he was lucky to be the beneficiary of their kindness. “I don't want to inconvenience you and Mary.”

Lark glanced over her shoulder. “Trust me, we won't do anything fancy. Just add another seat at the table.” She faced forward again, always attentive to her son and his horse. “But be warned, I cook on weekends and I'm not as good as my mom.”

“You have a barbecue?”

“Of course.”

“I'm not much of a chef, but I do okay with a grill. How about I bring over some steaks, ribs, whatever you like to eat? Chicken, fish?”

“Hamburgers!” Jayden said.

“It's hard to beat hamburgers,” Lark agreed. “I'll make fries to go with them.”

“Sounds good.” Usually, he aimed for a healthy diet, avoiding deep-fried foods and sugary ones. But a few fries wouldn't kill him. It'd be another homey meal. And that was nice. Really nice.

Though nowhere near as nice as his fantasy about being alone with Lark. And that was all it would ever be: a fantasy. Gloomily, he wondered if any woman was ever going to be attracted to him again—genuinely attracted, not one of those starry-eyed “soldiers are heroes” types or “give the poor broken soldier a pity fuck” women he'd run into. To be objective, it had to be a turnoff, thinking of having sex with a guy who had a stump instead of a leg. Hell, it was a turnoff for him just imagining taking off his clothes in front of a woman. Stripping off his pants—and one of his legs.

He was glad when the group reached the barn, and he could concentrate on removing the tack and grooming Celebration. This time, as he brushed the horse, he paid attention to the shift of muscles under the warm, dark coat, really appreciating what a strong animal this was. But gentle, too, as the horse turned his head to breathe soft air across Eric's arm. “You like that, do you, boy?” he murmured. It must feel a bit like a good massage.

Eric's massage therapist was male, and three times a week he worked Eric's tight muscles until they turned into jelly. Yet now, when Eric thought about massage, he imagined something quite different. Lark's hands were strong and capable. Could they be sensual as well? The thought of her hands caressing his nakedness made his body stir. But that was a fantasy for tonight, alone in his bed, not for the family-style company of the riding lesson or tonight's dinner.

Eric had always prided himself on his control. He liked things that were concrete. Situations he could take charge of, or at least ones where there were rules, guidelines, strategies, and tactics. And if he couldn't control a situation—such as the injuries to both his legs—at least he could work his hardest to determine the outcome. He'd been excellent at compartmentalizing, keeping personal issues locked away in a separate box in his brain so they never intruded when he needed to concentrate on a mission.

But in the past year, things had changed. He hadn't been concussed during the explosion; he hadn't, like Jayden, suffered a brain injury. Yet his razor-sharp control had deserted him. He hadn't figured out how to defeat PTSD, and now he was having trouble reining in his wayward thoughts about the strong, sexy fire chief.

A warm, velvety touch brushed his cheek, his ear. He shuddered with pleasure—until he regained his senses and saw that it was the horse nuzzling him.

He eased back and stared Celebration in the eyes. “I am so fucked up,” he confessed.

Those deep brown eyes stared calmly back. Without judgment. Reminding him, inevitably, of Lark.

Chapter Six

It seemed dinner wasn't going to be much of a test of his self-control, Eric thought ruefully later that night. He'd barely arrived at the Cantrell house, got the barbecue heating, and started to shape ground beef into patties when Lark's pager had beeped. A moment later she flew out the door.

Eric turned to Mary, who shrugged philosophically and stepped over to tend the deep fat fryer that Lark had deserted. “Weekdays, she works regular hours. Evenings and weekends, she doesn't have to respond unless she's the duty officer. That person has the duty vehicle and is first to respond to a call. If she's not duty officer, then she decides whether to go.”

“Based on?”

Jayden, who, in his walker, was standing at the sink painstakingly washing lettuce leaves, answered. “How bad the incident is, how much ap-pa-ra-tus they need, how many firefighters are needed.” He paused. “And when it happens. Like, Friday nights she'll usually go, because a lot of the guys are drinking beer.”

“It also depends on what she's doing,” Mary said as she lifted the basket out of the fryer and dumped French fries onto paper towels.

They smelled delicious, and Eric's stomach rumbled. That afternoon, he'd done a long workout at the fitness center and then run ten miles, and he was starving.

Mary went on, “If she's going to a school event with Jayden, she'll tell dispatch she's not on call. If it's the middle of the night, she'll often go because she never needs much sleep.”

Clearly, tonight's dinner didn't rank up there with one of Jayden's school events. Which was fair, just a little insulting to Eric's ego.

He moved to the double sink beside Jayden, used his elbow to nudge the tap over to the side that didn't hold lettuce leaves, and washed his hands. “I need to get the patties on the grill.” When Lark had thrown freshly cut potatoes into the fryer, she'd explained that she and her mom believed in double-cooking the fries, draining them in between. She said it made them come out soft inside and crispy outside, which sounded great to him. So now Mary'd be wanting to toss the fries back in for the second cooking.

“Should I grill—” He started to ask whether to cook Lark's meat, when a siren whooped, loud and close.

“Engine 2,” Mary said.

“Fire,” Jayden put in. “Eric, that's a ladder truck like the LEGO one I showed you.”

“How do you know?”

“You can tell the ap-pa-ra-tus by the sounds they make, and that tells you what kind of call it is. Because of Mom's SOP. That means standard operating procedure.”

Eric stifled a grin. “Got it. Go on.”

“The type of incident determines the ap-pa-ra-tus.” As Jayden continued, he brought a bowl of lettuce to the table, using the basket on his walker, and then he sat down and scooped some cut-up tomatoes and cucumber into the bowl. Eric didn't offer to help, knowing the boy took pride in handling the task himself. “If it's a ladder truck,” Jayden said, “then we can tell that the fire is at one of the office buildings or apartments that are more than—”

The last words were cut off by another siren.

“More than two stories,” Jayden finished. “And that's Engine 4 going out, so it's a big fire, not just, like, a little grease fire in someone's kitchen.”

“Speaking of kitchens,” Mary said. “I'm putting the fries back in. Without a grease fire. Jayden, get that salad finished. Eric, would you please get those burgers going?”

“Roger that. Should I cook Lark's?”

“Yes,” Mary said. “She can reheat it when she comes back.”

He went to grill the beef, and Jayden came out onto the back porch to watch and chat. Being aware that a flare-up on the barbecue might trigger a flashback, Eric had bought extralean meat and he turned it often to keep the small bit of fat from dripping and burning.

When the patties were done, Mary offered Eric a beer, which he accepted. The three of them sat around the kitchen table and assembled their own burgers. “When I was little,” Jayden said, “I really liked burgers and sandwiches because I could pick them up with two hands. I wasn't so good with a knife and fork then. Now I can even eat spaghetti, but I still love burgers.”

“I love them, too,” Eric said. He was about to say that he'd been barbecuing them himself since he was younger than Jayden—as the man of the house when his dad was away—but then he realized that might make the boy feel bad. Or make him demand to learn how to cook them, which Lark and Mary might not think was safe. It was interesting how you had to watch what you said around a kid.

Still, the dinner conversation was lively, and afterward all three of them did the dishes together. Then Mary said, “Jayden, why don't you entertain Eric? I have some work to do.” To Eric, she said, “I'm an artist. I paint, work with fabrics, and design clothing. It's good because I can fit my work around Lark's and Jayden's schedules.”

A strong woman and a flexible one. He respected all three Cantrells.

When they moved into the family room, Eric took a closer look at the paintings on the walls. All were of nature—scenics, animals—done with a First Nations flavor but not as structured as much of the Native Canadian art that he'd seen. He had noticed them before and liked them; they were soothing and yet compelling. Now he checked the signatures and turned to Mary. “You're a great artist.”

“Thank you, Eric. Before I go, shall I put on some music?”

Her question reminded him of his conversation with Lark the last time he'd been here. “Would you play Lark's song? The one you listened to when you were pregnant?”

When Mary Cantrell smiled, it was a small thing, not a beaming grin, but it had true warmth. “I would be happy to.”

A minute later, simple, haunting strains filled the room. A single stringed instrument—a violin, he assumed, knowing next to nothing about music—circled and rose like a solo bird.

As Mary left the room, Jayden said, “Let's play firefighting!”

“Sure.”

Jayden carefully made it from his walker and onto the floor, where he crawled to a big wooden chest and pulled out a bunch of LEGO trucks and firefighters. Eric got down on the floor, too, grateful as he so often was for the amazing technology that let him do this—not to mention run, bike, and swim—with his prosthetic leg.

As Jayden set out the toys, Eric found himself absorbed in the music. More instruments had joined in, and the melody dipped and soared in a poignant, hauntingly beautiful way. He remembered Lark saying it was called “The Lark Ascending,” and that her mom had found it uplifting. He got it. If a woman was going to have a theme song, this was an amazing one.

“Okay, it's all ready,” Jayden said, and Eric turned his attention to the boy as he explained the incident he'd set up. A LEGO auto repair shop was on fire, with a mechanic trapped inside among lots of highly flammable substances. Eric, well trained when it came to fire himself, was impressed by the extent of the boy's knowledge. They worked together on strategies and actions, and Eric was actually enjoying himself.

How ironic that he and Jayden were playing firefighting while Lark was out doing the real thing. And how troubling that, if this were a real fire, Eric might suffer a flashback and be a liability rather than an asset.

The thought crossed his mind that this LEGO play might actually serve a desensitization purpose. But in fact it wasn't so much the idea of fire that gave him trouble; it was the immediacy of smoke and flames that triggered flashbacks.

After an hour or so, Mary came out to join them. “Jayden, it's time for your bath.”

The boy started to whine, proving that, despite being mature in some areas, he was still just a typical kid. Mary overrode his protests.

Eric rose, saying, “I should be going.”

“Why don't you stay?” Mary said. “Have another beer. Jayden will be tucked in within half an hour and I'd be happy for some adult company.”

He could run a few miles, or go to the gym and work out for an hour, or go home to his drab apartment. Or he could hang around and talk to the intriguing Mary Cantrell.

And see if Lark came home.

* * *

As Engine 2 returned to the station around nine, Lark, in the Command seat beside Newbury at the wheel, was happy with how her firefighters had performed. The fire had been a challenge, involving three floors of a sixties apartment building. The owner's insurer would be getting a sizable claim and a number of people would be finding alternate accommodation for a while, but at least no lives had been lost, not even those of a white-haired granny's two Persian cats.

Lark had left the Engine 4 team onsite to keep an eye open for hot spots, and tomorrow she'd go in and apply her specialized training to investigate the cause. Tonight, she needed to write up her incident report.

She had missed dinner, and by the time she finished her report she'd have missed tucking in Jayden. She'd also, no doubt, missed talking to Eric.

At the fire hall, she shed her turnout gear, asked for volunteers to clean up the apparatus, and sent the rest home. Starving, she grabbed some crackers and cheese from the kitchen as well as a large glass of apple juice, and snacked as she typed up her report. The volunteers popped in when they were finished, to say good night, and she was alone.

It was just after ten when she headed home. No point showering at the fire hall when she had her own bathroom and toiletries just next door.

The family room curtains were pulled, but she could see that a light was on. Was there any chance Eric was still there, talking to Mary?

Lark opened the front door, stepped inside, and thumped into a hard body. Eric, who had obviously been on his way out. “Sorry,” she said, though in fact she didn't regret the momentary brush against his firm pecs.

And it was only momentary, because without warning Eric crashed to the floor.

What on earth? She hadn't bumped him that hard. Maybe his weight hadn't been balanced firmly on his prosthetic leg, and it had collapsed under him.

“Eric? Are you okay?” He wasn't getting up. She kneeled beside him, her emergency medical assistant training kicking in.

“What on earth?” Mary, who'd been behind him, slipped down to the floor on Eric's other side.

He was convulsing as if he was having a seizure. His skin was clammy, his breathing quick and panicked, and he began to cough and choke. Lark was about to take his vitals when he muttered, in a panicked tone, “Where's my weapon?” He coughed some more, said something that sounded like, “What the fuck happened?”

No, this wasn't a seizure; it was a flashback. Eric had lost his leg in an IED explosion in Afghanistan and she guessed he was reliving the horror.

“Should we call an ambulance or take him to the hospital?” Mary asked.

Lark met her mom's worried gaze and shook her head. “No. He's having a flashback. He'll come out of it, and we can help him.”

“Eric,” she murmured soothingly, “it's okay. You're not there. You're here with us, Eric, in Caribou Crossing. I'm Lark and you're here with me and my mom, Mary.” She leaned closer but didn't touch him. Touch, at this moment, might exacerbate his situation.

He was still coughing, choking out words she couldn't make out. She caught something that sounded like, “She loves you, too, Danny-Boy,” and then Eric gave an anguished howl. He coughed even harder, gasping for breath. This was what he'd been like the first time she laid eyes on him, when she'd pulled him out of the fire at the Hoppington farmhouse.

A thought struck her and she pulled back. Did fire trigger his flashbacks? Had she done this to him, with the reek of smoke that hung around her? Maybe not; this might also be a reaction to being startled when she bumped into him, but she wasn't sure.

“Mom,” she said quietly, “I think the smell of smoke may make this worse. I'm going to shower. Try to soothe him, ground him, make him realize he's here, not at war. Speak softly, slowly. Use his name, tell him where he is, who you are, and that he's safe.”

Mary, expression calm, nodded her understanding.

“Don't touch him,” Lark went on. “Not right away at least. He may think you're the enemy. He might strike out at you, and it might make his flashback worse, too. But if he seems to be coming out of it, maybe try saying that you want to touch him and reassure him, and you hope that's okay with him, and see how he responds.” Her mom had good healing instincts and Lark trusted her to make the right decision.

Mary nodded again and began to murmur soothing words, just as she did with Jayden when he had seizures—one of the symptoms of his CP which, thankfully, was now mostly controlled by meds. “It's all right, Eric, it's going to be all right. You're not overseas, Eric, you're in Caribou Crossing, safe and sound. I'm Mary Cantrell and you're in my house, where I live with Lark and Jayden. I'm here with you, Eric, and I won't let anything happen to you. You're safe and it'll all be okay.” She kept up in a rhythmic chain of words.

Confident that Eric was in good hands, Lark hurried down the hall, stripping off her clothes as she went.

In the shower, she soaped herself thoroughly with the lilac-scented soap she loved, shampooed her hair, and then repeated the process, quickly getting rid of every last hint of smoke. She brushed her teeth and drank a glass of cold water, easing the smoky feel and taste in the back of her throat. But every moment, she wondered how Eric and her mom were doing.

Barely taking time to dry off, she ran into her bedroom and grabbed clothes at random from her closet: jeans and a soft, well-washed gray sweatshirt. Not bothering with underwear, she yanked the garments over her damp skin and hurried out to see how Eric was doing.